


Rally of the Lakes

by missdibley



Series: Somewhere, Ireland [4]
Category: Magnus Martinsson - Fandom, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom, Wallander (UK TV), Wallander - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Ireland, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 02:57:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3920308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missdibley/pseuds/missdibley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"From that moment, I thought of her as mine. Which I know sounds possessive, maybe even obsessive, but the thing is... I could be nobody's but hers."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. College Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There are no scarves for Roque or Martinsson, of course. My mind begins to wander as I stroll the aisles of the shop, imagining what combination of stitches and patterns might make up a scarf for myself or for Halla, or for the two of us."

"Okay, so, a cardigan. Shawl collar. Black if you have it, white or ivory if you don't. And I want it to be snug, but not _tight_. And it should cover my bum."

The shop assistant at Aran Sweater Market nods, blushing furiously at Halla mentioning her own ass.

"Erm, I think we've got a few things that would suit. Do you mind taking a look at some of the men's offerings? We have quite a few women's styles with shawl collars, but they might not be long enough to cover your, um, figure."

Halla giggles. "Lead the way, please." She winks at me over her shoulder as she follows him towards the back of the shop.

"I won't be long. Back in a moment."

I watch her leave, then look for a chair when I can sit and wait. Finding none, I look for something to occupy my time.

Around me are heavy tables of dark wood, each piled high with sweaters in shades of white and cream and ivory, electric blue and ivy green, with the occasional shot of red and purple. I cross the room to a wall of scarves, all folded carefully and tucked into shelves. These are the clan scarves, each design bearing the name of an old Irish family.

There are no scarves for Roque or Martinsson, of course. My mind begins to wander as I stroll the aisles of the shop, imagining what combination of stitches and patterns might make up a scarf for myself or for Halla, or for the two of us.

* * *

Us. There has always been an us.

Ever since I saw her that hot day in June, sucking her thumb clean of that insane cheese sauce that seems to exist only in America and nowhere else.

When I touched her for the first time, squeezing her hand in mine in a seemingly innocent grasp of introduction, I was finished.

From that moment, I thought of her as mine. Which I know sounds possessive, maybe even obsessive, but the thing is... I could be nobody's but hers.

The first time I told her, it was the morning after we'd first slept together. The morning after we'd first met and, in a frenzy of heat and lust, slaked a thirst that could only be satisfied by each other. Just her. Just me. A cool room with a warm bed, and a delicious pizza to feed us between couplings.

She lay in bed, arms folded under her head, out of breath, chest heaving after I had pleasured her with my mouth, bringing her to what sounded and felt like a delicious climax.

Lying next to her, my head nestled on her soft belly, I felt like a king. I savored the last of her juices that lingered on my tongue. My fingers stroked the underside of a supple breast, touching the mark where, she told me, years of wearing underwire bras had bruised her.

She didn't seem concerned about that, or other marks on her body. Scars, stretch marks, dimples on fleshy inner thighs, freckles in secret spots that she had never seen. Together they formed a constellation, a galaxy, a little heaven that I was lucky enough to discover with every flick of my tongue, every thrust of my cock, every touch of my fingers.

I regarded myself, looking at my own pale arms, my chest, my abdomen, hips, cock, legs. Unblemished, seemingly untouched. Blank. Empty. Just waiting for Halla to claim them, claim me, with her lips and their kisses, with her hands and their caresses.

With her sex.

When I told her, as gently as I could, that I thought of her as mine, I felt her still beneath me. She breathed, her stomach falling then rising slowly again. I felt her free one of her arms from under her head, then reach down to stroke my jaw.

"How do you know?" She whispered.

"I..." I struggled. "I just do. It was, just, I touched you. And there you were. And there I was." I didn't know what I was saying.

"Had you been lost, Magnus?"

"Not lost, exactly, but I don't think I was anywhere in particular."

"That doesn't sound very nice." Halla shifted, gently placing my head on my arm so she could scoot down to face me. She tapped her finger on my lips.

I shrugged.

"It is, as you say, what it is."

Halla laughed, then leaned in to kiss the base of my neck. She curled into my body, sighing.

"This sort of existential meandering isn't what I'm used to, pillow talk-wise."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be!" Halla kissed me again. "So when I touch you, what happens then?"

"Like right now?"

"Yeah."

"It's like the sound of the lights in my office when I flick them on, after they've been off all night. I'm usually the first to come in."

"Oh? I'm almost always last." Halla smiled.

"Well, the lights at the station are bright. Maybe a little too bright, especially if I haven't had my coffee yet. But these lights, they hum. It's this sound that, makes me think of purpose, of energy. It seems to center me, reminds me that I'm there, and that I have a purpose."

"So what am I, the light?" Halla looked up at me, her eyes curious.

I kissed her forehead.

"No." I whispered. "You're the hum."

"Magnus, that's... I hardly know what to say. Except, I understand."

Halla pressed a kiss to my throat.

"And I'm not sure what this feeling is. Only that, I'm glad to know you."

She hooked a leg around my hip, then pulled it so we rolled over, with me lying on top of her.

I looked at Halla as she lay beneath me, panting and moaning softly. My cock almost fused to her sex, which was still so wet.

"And I hope..." Halla kissed my chest, and clasped her hands around my neck. "I hope that whatever this is, whatever we are, has only just begun."

I leaned down to kiss her, suckling on her tender bottom lip, before I shifted my hips, spread her legs with my hands, and began once again to slide into her hot, tender cunt.

* * *

"Hey!"

Halla's bright voice startles me, bringing me back from my reverie. She holds up a sweater in front of her body, twisting her body so I can admire it, the way it complements her pink cheeks and ebony curls. It's the color of sweet cream.

She looks like an angel.

"Is that the one?"

Halla nods, then peeks over my shoulder to examine the scarves.

"You thinking about a scarf?" She steps around me to run her fingers over the merchandise, petting them gently. "I think they look very cozy."

"I was, but these are clan scarves. They seem to be out of the Martinsson and Roque patterns, dear. Unless you wanted to change your name to Kennedy? Or Boyle?"

Halla laughs.

"No, I think I like my name. And I like yours, too." She grins, then a thoughtful look crosses her face.

Halla takes my hand and leads me to the register, where she pays for her sweater.

"What do you think a scarf for us would look like?"

I shrug.

"You're asking me? You're the creative one. Why don't you tell me?"

"[Detective Snuggums](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3750166/chapters/8322163), are you trying to interrogate me?"

"Answer the question, miss." I play at being stern, which only makes her giggle.

Halla thanks the clerk after he hands over her package and credit card, and we step outside into a soft misting rain.

Halla closes her eyes. I stop to wait but she nudges me with her shoulder.

"Keep going, boy scout. I can dream and meditate on this if you're there to guide me."

I begin to lead her carefully down College Street, which is full of people ducking in and out of shops selling souvenirs, food, and drink.

"Courtney's for a whiskey? Murphy's for ice cream?" I guide Halla across the street, where we duck into an alley that's a shortcut to the main street.

"Let's go back to the hotel. For, um, a nap." Halla smiles shyly, then opens her eyes to gaze at me.

I smile down at her.

"Yes, mademoiselle." I lean down to kiss her temple, then take her hand and we walk down the alley together.


	2. The Sweater Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halla and Magnus return from sweater shopping to make s'mores.
> 
> And yes, it is exactly as innocent as it sounds.

Halla scurries into the loo once we return to our room at the inn, shutting the door behind her.

"Shall I call for tea? Maybe a nip of something to warm us up?" I speak through the bathroom door as I shrug off my jacket.

"I'm not thirsty, but you go ahead if you want. Out in a sec."

Kicking off my boots, I hop onto the bed, lying on top of the covers to close my eyes for a second. I can hear a fire crackling away in the tiny hearth that sits opposite the bed, and I make a note to myself to remember to tip the housekeeping staff extra for setting it.

"Magnus? What do you think?"

I open my eyes to find Halla standing at the foot of the bed. The sweater she picked out hugs every curve, hitting the tops of her legs. Her legs, which are covered by black stockings that stretch above the knees yet, thankfully, leave her upper thighs deliciously bare.

Halla crosses her legs at the ankle, a mischievous look playing on her face.

"Beautiful," I breathe. "C'mere."

I sit up, holding my arms out to welcome her to the big, warm bed.

"Uh uh." Halla shows me the paper sack in her left hand. "You haven't eaten all day. And no, that pint at [The Laurels](http://www.thelaurelspub.com/) before the walking tour does not count."

"I wasn't hungry!" I protest. "And you're wrong. I did have something to eat. This morning."

Halla frowns at me, so pretty in her confusion.

"You were there..." I prompt.

Halla runs her fingers through her hair, then scratches behind her ear.

"What are you talking about, this morning? We didn't go out. I had tea, but you..."

Halla flushes.

She gets it now.

"THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT!" She cries.

"Ehehehehehehe." I can't help but laugh.

I crawl off the bed and catch her around the waist, grinning into her hair, enjoying the smell of the jasmine oil dotted behind her ears.

"But you were so delicious, and so sweet. A feast..." I press a kiss to her ear. "Fit for a king."

Halla pouts, her arms crossed in front of her chest. She looks positively murderous when I lick my lips.

"Asshole..." She sighs.

But then I feel her shoulders slump in resignation. Halla leans back, turning her head to the side so her neck is bared.

I nibble at her, taking little wet bites at the base of her throat.

"What's in the bag?" I murmur.

"Nothing for you."

Halla wiggles out of my arms, then cross the room to plop down in front of the fireplace. I follow her, sitting cross-legged behind her on the floor.

She doesn't protest when I place my hands on her hips from behind, then pull her into my lap. I press my cheek into her back, breathing in the smell of the few raindrops left on her hair, and the woolly scent of her new sweater. Halla hums as she opens the bag and starts removing the contents.

My eyes are shut for a minute when I feel a soft touch, a hit, on my forehead. Followed by another. And another. I open my eyes to find a marshmallow bouncing off my head and down onto the floor.

"S'mores. I'm making s'mores."

"Whatever s'mores are, does their creation involve throwing marshmallows at the person who loves you?"

"Always," replies Halla fiercely. "We Americans are funny that way."

I crane my head around to find that Halla has speared two marshmallows on metal skewers, and is toasting them on the fire.

"Are you going to tell me what a s'more is?"

"Of course I will." Halla leans back and begins "They are the greatest thing I have ever eaten."

"Really?" I smirk into her back. "Because you said that [the other day at Muckross House](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3887695) after you..."

"OH MY GOD." Halla shoves back against me.

"I'm sorry but you're just too easy to, what did your brother say to me in New York last year, 'rile up.'"

"Am not."

"You are." I pull Halla's curls off the back of her neck so I can suckle on the nape of her neck.

Her moans betray her, though not as well as her hips, which roll into me.

I slip a hand between her legs, and gasp in surprise.

"Miss Roque!"

"Yes, Detective Martinsson?" She hums.

"Your panties, it would seem, are missing."

"Oh yes. About that. There seems to be a thief in our midst."

Halla turns her head to kiss me, sucking my tongue into her sweet mouth.

"Such a strange coincidence, you see. Every time I see you, my panties go missing."

"Sounds serious," I mutter as I take the skewers out of her hand, then place them on a nearby table.

"Yes. It's never happened..." Halla whispers, then leans back into me. "Internationally before."

She gasps when I slide the hand not currently stroking her clit up into her sweater, brushing my fingers over her tender nipples.

"Oh Miss Roque," I murmur. "Lucky for you, I am on the case. And I have some time in my busy schedule..." I bite her earlobe, then quickly turn her around, and pin her onto the floor in front of the hearth.

Halla's eyes are closed and her mouth is slack, so I wait for her to tap my thigh before continuing.

Unbuttoning her sweater, I gently slide her arms out of the sleeves before straddling her hips.

She slips her hands to the front of my jeans, running her fingers along the zipper. She knows I don't usually wear boxers, and the feeling of her hands teasing my naked, swollen cock through the fabric is pure torture.

"Halla, please, no." I groan. I lean forward, supporting myself with my arms so I can whisper in her ear. "Don't do a thing. This is about you."

"Okay," Halla agrees. "But put it on. I want to see it on you."

"What?"

"The sweater." Halla opens her eyes, which are big and dark with desire.

I work the sweater out from under Halla, mesmerized by the sight of her breasts moving  as she wiggles beneath me. I shrug the cardigan over my arms. Considering our height difference, I'm surprised by how well it fits.

"You almost look just like him." Halla smiles tenderly.

"Like who?" I lean back over to kiss the corner of her mouth.

"That guy. You know, the actor. Don't make me say his name."

"That Tom Huddlesworth..."

"Tom Hiddleston!" Halla interrupts me, then dissolves into giggles. She draws her hands up to her breasts, brushing her fingertips across her nipples.

"Is that why you got the sweater? Because you wanted one like his?"

"Well," Hall says carefully, "Not exactly, but it doesn't hurt that, even when you look at me like I'm crazy, the way you're doing right now, you're the spitting image of him."

"Am I?" I smile down at her.

"You are. Or rather, he's the spitting image of you." Halla's eyes shine.

"Better," I whisper.

I lie down on Halla, putting my full weight on her. She brings her hands down to my thighs, tapping them again, before she opens her legs. Halla's knees are up, so I bring my legs up a bit so she can rest her legs on mine.

I find her breasts with my mouth, laving them with broad sweeps of my tongue. Below, I've worked one hand around her backside while the other is splayed across her cunt. Her cunt is so hot, velvety and slick under my hand. I brush a thumb against her clit.

"Oh god..." Halla moans. "Shit." She slips her hands under the sweater, clasping them around my waist.

I slowly flick one nipple, then the other, with my tongue. Tracing a trail between them, I carefully give each equal attention and care. She is salty and sweet and maybe it's the whiskey we've been drinking but I detect a faint hint of smoke on her warm flesh.

The thumb I'd brushed against her clit is now rubbing it in slow circles. I tease her folds with a finger briefly, then sink it in.

My baby doesn't like to be kept waiting.

As I pump that finger into her clenching flesh, I continue my circuit of licking her tits, her nipples, the sensitive skin between her soft breasts.

Halla's head is turned up and away, but not for long.

I slip a second finger inside of her, pump faster into her pussy, fast enough that I can hear the smacking of wet folds yielding to my touch. I begin licking her nipples more urgently, nipping them with my lips.

Helen looks down and gives me what I really want.

Her eyes.

Her near black eyes find me, see me and only me.

Halla closes her eyes for a moment, squeezing them shut as tears start to fall and stain her pink cheeks.

I slow down, always worried that I might hurt her, that her tears are not from the sheer intensity of our coupling but from real pain, but she always taps my thigh. Reassures me to keep doing what I am doing.

So I kiss faster, I suckle and bite her a little harder. I worry her clit with my thumb, pump and curl the two fingers fucking her, brushing that spongy spot inside of her that never fails to bring her pleasure but still no relief from my ministrations.

And when Halla begins to lose control, moaning when she isn't breathing raggedly, and her back spasms, I don't hold back even as she begins, ecstatically, to give in. Biting her lips when she's not opening them to wail, Halla whimpers and sings and laughs and moans.

She's breathing harder and faster, too hard to form words. No matter. The sound is enough for me. The feel of her body, [alive and coarse and strong and cunning](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3750166/chapters/8341210), is everything.

She comes apart in my arms, crying with relief as I bring her into me tightly, both arms wrapped around her. I nearly cry myself. I've never seen her come so hard without me fucking her with my cock. My poor cock which is so hard and wanting to come out to play.

I lay her down on the rug, then shrug out of the sweater so I can cover her with it. I find that I can slip under it too if I lay her in the crook of my arms.

"Are you alright?"

Halla sighs.

"Yes."

"Water?"

"No. Close eyes. Marshmallow later. Nap."

Halla turns in to face me, resting an arm on my chest, and breathes deeply before falling asleep.

I am anchored, safe and still in a warm room on a rainy day in a country as fragrant and as green as I was promised. I turn to look at the fire. There are marshmallows and a chocolate bar and a box of graham biscuits just within reach. I manage to get a square of chocolate unwrapped and place it under my tongue. I enjoy the sensation of it melting, then look down to regard Halla beside me.

She is mine.

And I am hers.

With every kiss and sigh and joke and snore (yes, those too) and marshmallow thrown and dirty joke made and sweater shrugged on.

There have been fights, but minor things. Stupid things, or so they seem now. A misunderstanding in New York, a missed text message. But we're here.

And now she tells me that "here" for the two of us is not just going to be on-line, in some virtual world we have built with emails and video chats and dirty texts and dirty pictures and the odd visit.

"Here" is Ireland, but then it will be Sweden. "Here" will only be 50 minutes apart by train.

"Here" could just as easily have been Chicago as I might one day tell her I was trying for a job there but didn't tell her because was it too soon? This I had wondered.

Obviously it wasn't because she, sly minx, found a job in Sweden. She did it for her. She did it for me. She did it for us.

"Here" is Ireland. "Here" is Sweden.

"Here" is Halla.

"Here" is home.


End file.
